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In the end, she lost again a second time, reconciled herself to fate and built again with broken tools a limping life in shrunken territory, succeeding so well that jealous Rome deliberately forced a third war. And then Carthage, with nothing but bare hands and tenacity, built weapons and forced Rome into a two-year war that ended only with complete destruction of the city, the inhabitants throwing themselves into their flaming houses rather than surrender.
"Could people fight so for a city and a way of life as bad as the ancient writers painted it? Ha
Foster didn't always listen but sometimes he couldn't help himself and he shuddered and turned sick at the bloody tale of child sacrifice.
But Potterley went on earnestly, "Just the same, it isn't true. It's a twenty-five-hundred-year-old canard started by the Greeks and Romans. They had their own slaves, their crucifixions and torture, their gladiatorial contests. They weren't holy. The Moloch story is what later ages would have called war propaganda, the big lie. I can prove it was a lie. I can prove it and, by Heaven, I will-I will-"
He would mumble that promise over and over again in his earnestness.
Mrs. Potterley visited him also, but less frequently, usually on Tuesdays and Thursdays when Dr. Potterley himself had an evening course to take care of and was not present.
She would sit quietly, scarcely talking, face slack and doughy, eyes blank, her whole attitude distant and withdrawn.
The first time, Foster tried, uneasily, to suggest that she leave.
She said tonelessly, "Do I disturb you?"
"No, of course not," lied Foster restlessly. "It's just that-that-" He couldn't complete the sentence.
She nodded, as though accepting an invitation to stay. Then she opened a cloth bag she had brought with her and took out a quire of vitron sheets which she proceeded to weave together by rapid, delicate movements of a pair of slender, tetra-faceted depolarizers, whose battery-fed wires made her look as though she were holding a large spider.
One evening, she said softly, "My daughter, Laurel, is your age."
Foster started, as much at the sudden unexpected sound of speech as at the words. He said, "I didn't know you had a daughter, Mrs. Potterley."
"She died. Years ago."
The vitron grew under the deft manipulations into the uneven shape of some garment Foster could not yet identify. There was nothing left for him to do but mutter inanely, "I'm sorry."
Mrs. Potterley sighed. "I dream about her often." She raised her blue, distant eyes to him.
Foster winced and looked away.
Another evening she asked, pulling at one of the vitron sheets to loosen its gentle clinging to her dress, "What is time viewing anyway?"
That remark broke into a particularly involved chain of thought, and Foster said snappishly, "Dr. Potterley can explain."
"He's tried to. Oh, my, yes. But I think he's a little impatient with me. He calls it chronoscopy most of the time. Do you actually see things in the past, like the trimensionals? Or does it just make little dot patterns like the computer you use?"
Foster stared at his hand computer with distaste. It worked well enough, but every operation had to be manually controlled and the answers were obtained in code. Now if he could use the school computer… Well, why dream, he felt conspicuous enough, as it was, carrying a hand computer under his arm every evening as he left his office.
He said, "I've never seen the chronoscope myself, but I'm under the impression that you actually see pictures and hear sound."
"You can hear people talk, too?"
"I think so." Then, half in desperation, "Look here, Mrs. Potterley, this must be awfully dull for you. I realize you don't like to leave a guest all to himself, but really, Mrs. Potterley, you mustn't feel compelled-"
"I don't feel compelled," she said. "I'm sitting here, waiting."
"Waiting? For what?"
She said composedly, "I listened to you that first evening. The time you first spoke to Arnold. I listened at the door."
He said, "You did?"
"I know I shouldn't have, but I was awfully worried about Arnold. I had a notion he was going to do something he oughtn't and I wanted to hear what. And then when I heard-" She paused, bending close over the vitron and peering at it.
"Heard what, Mrs. Potterley?"
"That you wouldn't build a chronoscope."
"Well, of course not."
"I thought maybe you might change your mind."
Foster glared at her. "Do you mean you're coming down here hoping I'll build a chronoscope, waiting for me to build one?" I "I hope you do, Dr. Foster. Oh, I hope you do."
It was as though, all at once, a fuzzy veil had fallen off her face, leaving all her features clear and sharp, putting color into her cheeks, life into her eyes, the vibrations of something approaching excitement into her voice.
"Wouldn't it be wonderful," she whispered, "to have one? People of the past could live again. Pharaohs and kings and-just people. I hope you build one, Dr. Foster. I really-hope-"
She choked, it seemed, on the intensity of her own words and let the vitron sheets slip off her lap. She rose and ran up the basement stairs, while Foster's eyes followed her awkwardly fleeing body with astonishment and distress.
It cut deeper into Foster's nights and left him sleepless and painfully stiff with thought. It was almost a mental indigestion.
His grant requests went limping in, finally, to Ralph Nimmo. He scarcely had any hope for them. He thought numbly: They won't be approved.
If they weren't, of course, it would create a scandal in the department and probably mean his appointment at the university would not be renewed, come the end of the academic year.
He scarcely worried. It was the neutrino, the neutrino, only the neutrino. Its trail curved and veered sharply and led him breathlessly along uncharted pathways that even Sterbinski and LaMarr did not follow.
He called Nimmo. "Uncle Ralph, I need a few things. I'm calling from off the campus."
Nimmo's face in the video plate was jovial, but his voice was sharp. He said, "What you need is a course in communication. I'm having a hell of a time pulling your application into one intelligible piece. If that's what you're calling about-"
Foster shook his head impatiently. "That's not what I'm calling about. I need these." He scribbled quickly on a piece of paper and held it up before the receiver.
Nimmo yiped. "Hey, how many tricks do you think I can wangle?"
"You can get them, Uncle. You know you can."
Nimmo reread the list of items with silent motions of his plump lips and looked grave.
"What happens when you put those things together?" he asked. Foster shook his head. "You'll have exclusive popular publication rights to whatever turns up, the way it's always been. But please don't ask any questions now."
"I can't do miracles, you know."
"Do this one. You've got to. You're a science writer, not a research man. You don't have to account for anything. You've got friends and co
They can look the other way, can't they, to get a break from you next publication time?"
"Your faith, nephew, is touching. I'll try."
Nimmo succeeded. The material and equipment were brought over late one evening in a private touring car. Nimmo and Foster lugged it in with the grunting of men unused to manual labor.
Potterley stood at the entrance of the basement after Nimmo had left. He asked softly, "What's this for?"
Foster brushed the hair off his forehead and gently massaged a sprained wrist. He said, "I want to conduct a few simple experiments."
"Really?" The historian's eyes glittered with excitement.
Foster felt exploited. He felt as though he were being led along a dangerous highway by the pull of pinching fingers on his nose; as though he could see the ruin clearly that lay in wait at the end of the path, yet walked eagerly and determinedly. Worst of all, he felt the compelling grip on his nose to be his own.
It was Potterley who began it, Potterley who stood there now, gloating; but the compulsion was his own.
Foster said sourly, "I'll be wanting privacy now, Potterley. I can't have you and your wife ru
He thought: If that offends him, let him kick me out. Let him put an end to this.
In his heart, though, he did not think being evicted would stop anything.
But it did not come to that. Potterley was showing no signs of offense. His mild gaze was unchanged. He said, "Of course, Dr. Foster, of course. All the privacy you wish."
Foster watched him go. He was left still marching along the highway, perversely glad of it and hating himself for being glad.
He took to sleeping over on a cot in Potterley's basement and spending his weekends there entirely.
During that period, preliminary word came through that his grants (as doctored by Nimmo) had been approved. The Department Head brought the word and congratulated him.
Foster stared back distantly and mumbled, "Good. I'm glad," with so little conviction that the other frowned and turned away without another word.
Foster gave the matter no further thought. It was a minor point, worth no notice. He was pla
One evening, a second and third and then, haggard and half beside himself with excitement, he called in Potterley.
Potterley came down the stairs and looked about at the homemade gadgetry. He said, in his soft voice, "The electric bills are quite high. I don't mind the expense, but the City may ask questions. Can anything be done?"
It was a warm evening, but Potterley wore a tight collar and a semijacket. Foster, who was in his undershirt, lifted bleary eyes and said shakily, "It won't be for much longer, Dr. Potterley. I've called you down to tell you something. A chronoscope can be built. A small one, of course, but it can be built."